firsts
by what a lovely way to burn
Summary: — there's a first time for everything.


_**author's notes:** written for amanda (daryldixon'sgirl1985) through the gift tag on hogwarts (challenges and assignments) and for the room of requirement 2019 writing challenge._

 _i've never written this pairing before, or the trope, so please excuse my newbieness. :p_

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 **firsts**

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The first Quidditch match of the term always worries Oliver. It's been five years since he first was able to watch his first Hogwarts game and the butterflies still return without fail every year. There's no getting rid of them, but Oliver's so used to them they barely even bother him anymore.

Not this game. This game is different. He's the Gryffindor team captain, and Harry Potter is on his team even though the tiny runt is only an ickle firstie, and Marcus-bloody-Flint is the Slytherin captain and as much as Oliver finds Marcus attractive, he does _not_ trust the sixth year Slytherin to play fair. Especially not around the Boy-Who-Lived.

"We go out there," he tells the rest of the team, "and we play the best bloody game Hogwarts has ever seen."

"You said that last year," says one of the Weasley twins — either Fred or George; he can't tell. The locker room echoes with the team's laughter, and Oliver even spots Harry hiding a grin.

"Alright," Oliver amends. "A better game than last year."

Angelina Johnson coughs and mutters, "Like that's going to be hard."

"What happened last year?" Harry asks, piping up for the first time. He's a fairly quiet kid — rather unsuspecting outside of flying — but Oliver's seen just what he's capable of.

"Oh, nothing," the other Weasley twin says cheerfully. "We only got mauled by Slytherin 460-30. McGonagall said she'd never been so embarrassed to eat at the High Table for Snape's gloating."

"But that's not going to happen this year," Oliver interrupts. "Or do I have to give you The Speech again?"

Groans fill the room. "Please, no."

"Spare us!"

Fred — or George — stage-whispers out of the corner of his mouth to Harry, "We know Oliver's speech by heart. We were on the team last year."

"Shut up, you two," Oliver says, though there's no real bite in his voice. "This is the best team Gryffindor's had in years. We're going to win. I just know it."

•

The Slytherins seem to have toned down their foul play, probably because Flint doesn't want to be suspended, expelled, or have to repeat a year again. There is definitely foul play coming from elsewhere, as Harry's broom seems to be attempting to rid itself of its rider in the middle of the game, but Harry eventually remounts and returns to looking for the golden Snitch.

Oliver is so proud of his Gryffindors by the end of the game that his chest is fit to burst. Up in the stands, McGonagall appears to be doing a personalised version of the moonwalk, and Snape's arms are crossed while he scowls into space as if the blue sky was personally offending him.

Harry seems none the worse for wear despite having nearly swallowed the Snitch. Oliver claps him on the shoulder and receives a brilliant smile from the younger boy before he turns back to his friends to continue celebrating Gryffindor's victory.

Oliver turns away from the rest of the team and is faced with Marcus Flint standing only feet away. His broom is slung over his shoulder and, to Oliver's surprise, he doesn't seem angry or vindictive.

"Flint," he greets the Slytherin team captain with a neutrality he's rather proud of.

"Wood," Flint returns, inclining his head in greeting. It's the politest Oliver's seen him in all of their five years at Hogwarts together, and he has to admit it's a pleasant change. He's wondered for months what Flint's voice would sound like when not sneering insults, and he wasn't disappointed in the least. His voice was surprisingly deep, and it wrapped around Oliver's name with a poetic inflection that made it sound like the only word in the world.

"Good game," Oliver says. He cringes slightly; it sounds like he's bragging, though he's not. At least, he didn't mean to.

Flint doesn't seem fazed. "It was, wasn't it?" he replies, smiling slightly. He got his teeth fixed, Oliver notes. They're pearly and white, and as straight as Oliver's own. "You played well. You'll be good for the team."

Oliver swallows. "Is that the general opinion, or —?"

The Slytherin tips back his head and laughs, which Oliver thinks is the best sound in the entire world. It's rich and deep and it's so irresistible that makes the corners of Oliver's mouth twitch in response. When he recovers, though he's still smiling, he assures Oliver, "It's my personal opinion."

"Oh." Oliver doesn't know what to say now. "Um." And before he can control his brain or it his mouth, he hears himself asking Marcus-bloody-Flint, "Would you like to go grab something from the kitchens?"

His smile widening, Marcus — oh, Merlin, when had he reverted to calling him by his first name? — says, "I'd love to."

It's another first.

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 _word count: 807_

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 **gift!tag prompts**

marcus x oliver

enemies to lovers trope

 **ror prompts**

2019 writing challenge — january: new year's day — write about a first


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